


and the words we say aren't meant for anyone

by free_pirate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Community: angst_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/free_pirate/pseuds/free_pirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the end. No matter who comes out on top, Dean loses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the words we say aren't meant for anyone

**Author's Note:**

> For angst_bingo prompt 'The Last Time'. Title from Bright Eyes, because I'm afraid to admit they own my soul. Spoilers through 5.22, "Swan Song".

The night before Sam says yes to Lucifer, Dean doesn’t sleep. The house is restless, refuses to settle around them; he stares up at the popcorn ceiling in the room that he and Sam have shared since they were kids and can’t stop thinking.

This is the end. No matter who comes out on top, Dean loses.

He listens to Sam breathing, too-quick and loud in the dark. This is the last time he’ll be able to lay awake and listen to Sam pretend to sleep. The last time they’ll share this room at Bobby’s, or any room. There’s nothing Dean has left to sell or barter away to save Sam; in a way, Sam’s done this to himself. But even with the things he’s done, he doesn’t deserve to have Lucifer use him as a puppet.

The best thing Dean can wish for at this point is that Sam will be burned out of his body before Lucifer starts killing people, if it goes that way. And there’s not much hope of it going any other way.

Sam shifts in the bed next to his, sheets rustling as he tries to get comfortable. Dean wants to tell him that it’s useless, that there’s no way either of them is sleeping tonight no matter how hard they try, but it’s pointless. Sam knows.

He wants to roll over and watch Sam, ask him if just wants to drive for a while, spend all night running the roads with the wind in his face for the last time. If he wants to drive out to the middle of nowhere and sit on the hood, watch the stars that have so eagerly decided how their lives are going to go. If there’s anything, anything at all that Sam wants for himself besides this dark room with tension so thick it’s palpable.

Another few minutes laying in the dark and he almost does, but before he has the chance, Sam’s whispering, “Dean?” like he expects Dean to be sleeping.

“Yeah,” Dean whispers back, and wonders how many times this room has seen conversations starting just like this.

“Can you come here?” There’s something odd about Sam’s voice, something unsure and dark, and it takes Dean a few seconds to realize what Sam wants, the only thing Dean has left to give him. It takes half a second of deliberation before Dean throws the covers off and crosses the gap between their beds.

He can see Sam’s shape in the half-light falling through the open window on the other side of the room, dark silhouette pressed as far to the other side of the twin as he can manage. It’ll be a tight fit, and if they lay shoulder to shoulder they’ll both be falling off, but that isn’t how it’s going to happen. It’s been a while since they’ve done this, even longer since they’ve done it in this room in this house, with Bobby or Dad just downstairs or down the hall. It’s been a while, and it takes a bit of maneuvering to make it comfortable for both of them.

Dean can feel Sam’s heartbeat where he’s pressed against Sam’s chest; it’s strong, loud, hammering out a rhythm against his ribs. He tries to forget, tries to enjoy it while he can, but the knowledge that this is the last time they’ll do this plants itself deep and throbs through him.

It’s a short leap from where they are now, Sam curled around him, threaded through him, to Sam’s hand curling around his waist and sinking lower, fingers toying with the elastic waistband of Dean’s boxers. Something in Dean is hardwired to want this, as much as he can try and deny it, tell himself it was a long time ago and he’s past it now; he’ll always want Sam this way. It’s a curse just as much as their destiny is a curse.

And he has to believe that, because believing that this is anything but a curse is far too fucked-up for even him. It’s something that simply exists, that they both want, and that’s all it has to be.

“Dean,” Sam says, husky in his ear, running his blunt fingernails over and over the patch of skin right under his waistband. “Tell me we can have this. Please, just—“  
“Fuck, Sam,” Dean hisses out, arching against the press of Sam’s fingers. “Yeah, come on.” Sam takes a shaky breath, presses a kiss to the place just below Dean’s ear that he knows makes him come undone, and works his hand between skin and fabric to take Dean in hand. He’s already hard, aching for it, and he bucks off the bed violently when Sam squeezes like he likes it, like he still likes it after all this time and the fact that Sam remembers tears something in his chest open.

Sam isn’t smiling, isn’t laughing like he usually would be at getting Dean so worked up. He’s concentrating, and Dean wonders if he’s trying to commit this to memory, if he thinks he’ll still be able to remember when Lucifer gets through with him. Dean will remember, will remember the feel of Sam’s dry, calloused hands on him until the day he dies because Sam just gets him that way, always has. He still remembers how it felt the first time, when they were both young and careless and didn’t know that this is as much their destiny as the apocalypse.

Dean pants, fucking up into Sam’s grip, grinding back against Sam’s dick, trapped and throbbing against his ass. There’s so much more they should do, so much more they could; Dean wants all the time in the world to be through with Sam, wants to spend as much time as he can rediscovering everything they’d done before. They only have a few hours, but Dean wants to lay his final claim, the final claim before Lucifer takes Sam completely and leaves Dean nothing but the memory of this.

“Sam,” he says, a singular syllable through gritted teeth, and Sam slows his hand. “Sam, we-“

“Shh,” Sam says, breathless as he arches into Dean’s body. He twists his wrist, slowly and methodically taking Dean apart, and Dean can’t catch his breath long enough to protest. Each drag of palm up his cock pulls his closer to the end, to the edge from which there is no return.

When his orgasm hits, it’s sudden, almost unexpected. One moment he’s groaning, begging Sam for just the little bit more it’ll take, and then it hits him. Technicolor bright, explosion of color and feeling and fuck, Sam’s still moving his hand, sending tendrils of sensation and sparks up Dean’s spine. He’s completely gone with it, thrusting into Sam’s hand without any finesse or coordination, muscles straining and flexing.

When he comes down, he’s gradually aware of two things; Sam hand is still touching him, gripping his softening cock almost painfully, and Sam is still hard against his ass. “Fuck, Dean,” he groans, biting a mark into the side of Dean’s neck. Marks are a supremely bad idea when they’re this close to other people, when they aren’t being transient; Dean would advise against it but it feels so fucking good and he doesn’t have the energy. He’ll be wearing this mark tomorrow, when Sam is gone. He’ll wear this mark for the next week, see it in the mirror and feel it when his collars scrape against it.

And it’s going to hurt like a bitch.

When Sam’s satisfied that he’s marked Dean as thoroughly as he’s able with just his teeth and tongue, Dean pulls away. Sam makes a small noise of protest, but Dean works his way down the twin without falling off, pulling the covers down Sam’s body as he goes. He pulls them down until they pool at the foot of the bed, and Dean leans over Sam’s bare stomach, presses a kiss to the skin just below his belly button and works his mouth down the line of hair that leads below Sam’s boxers.

He tugs those off as well until they’re tangled around Sam’s ankles; his cock curves up towards his belly, hot and hard, and Dean wraps his hand around the base and takes Sam into his mouth. Sam makes a choked-off noise and Dean knows if they weren’t here, if they were alone in a motel, he’d be louder. Sam’s always been loud, and Dean loves hearing him. He hates the risk of being found out for taking that from him, especially now.

Dean sucks on just the head for a while, tonguing up underneath the crown, keeping Sam’s hips held down so he doesn’t buck up and gag him. Years ago, the sight of Sam straining for his mouth, making the half-whimpering sounds he makes, would get Dean going again. It very nearly does; his cock twitches valiantly, trying to be included in the equation again, but Dean regretfully knows that he’s done. It’s all about Sam now, like it should have been from the beginning.

He sinks down farther on Sam’s cock, tongue fluttering along the underside and hand stroking up from the base, and he can feel the muscles in Sam’s thighs locking up, knows he’s trying to clamp down on his orgasm and make it last as long as possible. Dean pulls off, hand still working furiously. “C’mon, Sammy. Let it happen.”

The moment before it does, Sam says something that might be his name and he arches; Dean closes his mouth around Sam again, humming low in his throat, and Sam comes with a muffled shout. Dean returns the earlier favor and doesn’t pull away, just swallows as much as he can and keeps working his tongue.

Moments later, Sam’s whimpering at him, begging him to stop. Dean works his way back up the bed, snuggled in close to his brother’s side, and kisses him. The almost-bitter tang of come is washed away and replaced with Sam, and for a few seconds Dean can lose himself in the illusion that they can do this every night until they’re too old to do it anymore. That the world isn’t ending for Dean tomorrow, one way or another, and that his entire life can be wrapped up in Sam’s arms and it doesn’t have to hurt.

They don’t sleep. They stay close, pasted together by spit and sweat and come. The sun rises, and they both turn to watch the end creep up slowly. Sam’s breath is ragged, scared even if he won’t admit it, and Dean tries not to let on that he is. He tries to let Sam know that everything will be okay without saying it, because he’s never had to say it before.

Eventually they stop pretending to sleep and get up, take their separate showers and continue on like they always have. Before they leave the house, when Bobby is already out getting his van ready to go, Sam leans in close to Dean, cornering him near the door, and kisses him slow and bittersweet.

It’s the last time, and Dean will taste Sam for the rest of his life.


End file.
